


Peter and the ****ing Chirps

by JessamyGriffith



Series: Guardians of the Puck [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Hockey RPF
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Hockey, BAMF Peter Quill, Bisexual Peter Quill, Bisexuality, Coming Out, F/M, Gen, Goalie Peter Quill, Hockey, Homophobic Language, Kid Peter Quill, M/M, Marvel References, Peter Quill Feels, Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Teenage Peter Quill, goalie love, half-canadian Peter Quill, supportive Meredith Quill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: Peter sort of expects trash-talk from other players just because heisthe youngest guy on his team, but that's hockey for you. Some jackass is jealous because Peter's probably the best goalie in the league, and wants to mouth off about Peter's mom? He'll just grin and do his best to rub their faces in how awesome he is.But as Peter gets older, the insults get more personal and harder to shrug off. Because if the guys knew the truth about him? They'd eat him alive.Chirping is part of the game of hockey, and Peter Quill just needs to learn how todeal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for insults about mothers, sex, and homophobic slurs.
> 
> Also, the tags indicate a slash pairing, but that's more for feelings of attraction than any actual sexual acts.
> 
> Note for hockey purists: the OHL changed its draft eligibility age in 1997, but it was messing up my overall series timeline. So for the purposes of the fic, Peter is eligible at the end of his season as a fifteen-year old.
> 
> The fic covers Peter from age ten to fifteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to goalie camp and learns the meaning of some slang.

**Chirp - (noun/verb): trash talk. Normally directed toward an opponent or their team’s bench; also used in locker-rooms.**

**_August 18th, 1991. Peewee._ **

Peter flexes his hand on his stick and skates backwards in a crouch, eyes on the player coming towards him. The shot comes and he drops into a butterfly save, puck bouncing off his pads. Climbing back up, he wiggles his hips in a small victory dance. “Whoo!”

“Okay, Pyotr, nice one,” his coach says in his Russian-accented English, swinging around to tap his pads. “Keep working on those flexibility stretches, but don’t forget - stand-up saves are very good. Save your knees, you will need them.”

“Stand-up would work better if I was taller,” Peter says. He’s almost eleven, but not as big as he’d like to be. He has to rely on his speed and agility to defend the net.

Vlad laughs. “Tall does not always mean best. Fast legs, fast hands, good eyes - this makes best goalies. You have no fear. That is good. Use it, play out from the goal, use your skating skills. You skate very well! Strength and skating take you farthest. Maybe we see you here again next year?”

“Hope so!” Peter says. He loves, _loves_ summer goaltending camp here in Toronto. It had taken some time and whining to convince his mom that yes, he really _did_ want to be a goalie. A long, _long_ year of switching between a forward position and goalie, strapping on the team-provided goalie gear. After talking with his coach about what to expect, Meredith had acquiesced. Peter switched to goaltending full-time, which meant he could finally get his own stuff. He’d worried about it - hockey was expensive even without equipment costs. But they’d been able to pick up the pads second-hand, and his grandparents had found a right-hand catcher and left hand blocker to suit Peter’s style and mailed it to him for a birthday gift. It was Greg Quill who was also paying for camp, declaring that no hockey school in Missouri could give Peter the training he needed. Like, visiting Canada for holidays was already pretty cool, but this? Hockey school just for _goalies_? Awesome.

“Good. Go take a few laps, cool down and stretch. You’re done.” Peter thanks his coach before moving off to join the others circling the ice. He pulls off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, twirling a few times just for fun. His thighs are burning, his hands shaky with tiredness but he can’t stop smiling.

In the changing room, Peter chats with the other boys about school in September and how great camp was as he packs up. “We definitely don’t have anything this cool in St. Louis,” Peter says.

“Yeah? Then how’d _you_ get so good?” Marc, a local kid who’s a year younger than Peter squints at him.

Peter shrugs. “Just… practice. I used to play left wing, so that probably helped.”

“What I thought was amazing,” says Stu, a much bigger boy with spots, “is how fast Quill is dropping to his knees. Must be something they’re good at in the States.”

Stu’s benchmate snorts and shoves Stu with his shoulder. “Man, don’t start with the kiddies.”

Peter and Marc exchange baffled glances. “I don’t think it’s an American thing?” Peter says. “But if you’re bad at it, just... Ya know. Practice more, Stu.”

Stu’s face flushes such a deep red that Peter is kinda of worried. His friend brays with laughter. “Oh, he got you! Got you good, Stu.”

“American faggot,” Stu says spitefully, and oh. Yeah, Peter’s heard this one before, though he’s not _exactly_ sure what it means. There’s one response that usually works well, though, but only when he’s in a hockey space and _never_ when adults were around. His mom would kill him if she heard.

“Fuck off. I’m half Canadian, eh?” Peter says easily, and everyone, even Stu, is startled into laughter.

 

 

“Right, ready to go?” Meredith asks Peter. Their old car is loaded with baggage from two weeks of vacation, plus his hockey gear. “Say goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa.” Greg and Janine Quill are standing in the driveway to see them off.

“Bye, Grandma.” Peter hugs her, going up on tip-toe to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for having us. Your pies are the best!” He repeats the gesture for his grandfather. “Thank you for goalie camp, Grandpa, it was so, so _cool._ And for the gear. It’s great.”

Greg runs a hand over Peter’s hair. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Hope you learned a lot.” At Peter’s enthusiastic head nod, he chuckles. “Good. Good. Take care of your mother. We might see you around Christmas this year.”

“I wish we could see you more often,” Janine says. “Meredith, if only you--”

“Mom,” Meredith says. “Don’t. I love my job. The salary’s better than anything I was ever offered here. I’m happy. And it wouldn’t be fair to move Peter away from his school and friends.” She hugs Peter to her side. “We’re fine.”

Janine’s eyes are wistful as they rest on Peter. He squirms. “I just feel like we’re missing out on so much.”

“You wouldn’t mind living in Canada, would you, Peter?” his grandfather asks.

Peter shrugs, uncomfortable. “I guess. There’s lots more hockey stuff here. But it’s too cold in winter.”

“No,” Meredith says, half-laughing. “No bribing him with hockey, Dad. Dirty play.”

Greg laughs. “Okay, fine. Be careful driving, Meredith. Love you, babe. Always miss you.”

“We have one more thing for you, Peter,” Janine says. She hands him a gift bag. He digs past the tissue and pulls out three books. It’s the _Hockey Stories_ trilogy by Scott Young. “Something to read on the road.”

“Look, Mom.” Peter shows her the cover of the third book, _A Boy at the Leafs’ Camp_ , and smirks _._ “It’s for you. The _LeeEEafs_.” She finger flicks his ear and he twists away, laughing.

“You should be so lucky as to play in Toronto, child. Okay, get in. Time to hit the road.”

A final flurry of goodbyes and hugs, and they are on the long trek back to St. Louis. It will take about two days, and on previous trips they’ve amused themselves by stopping at ridiculous roadstop attractions or scenic stops, overnighting in a cheap motel. But when the radio can’t pick up any interesting stations, Peter plugs in one of the Awesome Mix tapes his mom’s made (they’ve got six mixes now, all classic rock) and they sing. Peter is most of the way through _Scrubs on Skates_ when he sighs and lets the book drop on his lap. “Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?” She’s tapping her fingers along to ‘Fox on the Run’.

“What’s it mean, being fast at dropping to your knees?”

The car surges slightly as Meredith inhales sharply and starts to cough. “What? Peter, where did you hear that?”

Peter’d guessed it didn’t mean anything nice. His mom’s reaction clinched it. “One of the older boys, last day at camp. Just. You know. Chirping in the locker room.”

“Did anyone else say something to you?” Her brows are drawn together as she glances at him.

“Yeah,” Peter says, reluctant.

“Oh, boy.” Meredith blows a curl away from her face. “Pit stop, I think. I want to hear the whole story.”

At the next rest area, they sit on a picnic table with sodas while Peter tells her what happened. He doesn’t understand why she laughs at what he said to Stu, though.

“You said exactly the right thing, kiddo. Not that I ever want to catch you swearing like that, hear me?” Meredith mutters something under her breath like, _mom would kill me if--._ “Okay. God, never thought I’d be explaining this, but here goes. A faggot - it’s not something I’d like you saying to people. You know - um, you know how men and women usually get married, have kids, all that?”

Meredith’s face is flushed, and Peter makes the connection. “Is this about sex, Mom?” he asks.

She covers her face and groans. “God, I am a failure at mothering, this is terrible. Okay, let’s try again. Yeah. Men and woman have sex. That’s normal. And sometimes - men and men do too. Have sex. They call those couples faggots.”

“Oh.” Peter digests this. He’d had the idea it was something dirty about boys. He can’t quite imagine how the sex works, but Mom’s a nurse, so she’d know. “Yeah. All right. So - really bad word then?”

“Yes. Because some people don’t think it’s natural. It depends on your beliefs, really. Anyway, a faggot is the worst kind of word you can use for a guy who, um, loves another guy. Which is why I’m not upset you told that kid to eff off.”

“What about the knees thing?” Peter asks and his mom groans again.

“You’re killing me. Okay. You’re probably due the basic sex education lecture.” Meredith slugs back her cola. “But the knees thing… Well, that’s advanced level stuff, so we gotta work our way up to that.”

Something in her tone tells Peter not to disagree, no matter how much his curiosity burns. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I guess.”

She points a finger at him. “Kid, I’m not going to lie. This will probably be embarrassing for both of us, but we gotta do it. It’s important. You need to know.”

“‘And knowing is half the battle. G.I. Joe!’” Peter sings. It’s stupid but Meredith huffs a laugh. “It’s okay, Mom. Stu was just a big hoser.”

“Yeah?” She cocks a brow at him and stands, brushing the seat of her shorts clean.

“Totally,” Peter says. “His goalkeeping sucked. I think he was just jealous.”

“Ah, that,” Meredith murmurs. “Yes, I know how that goes. Just - Peter, listen. Tell me. If people are saying crap like that to you, players, parents - tell me. We’ll figure out what to do. Make - oh, I don’t know. A list. Tactics for when this happens again - and it will happen. Promise me, okay? We’re partners in this.”

“Okay, Mom.” They solemnly tap fists. “Partners.”

“Such a great kid,” Meredith says. She tousles his hair and squeezes him in a one armed-hug before they turn back to the car. “I love you.”

“I know.” Peter bites back his smirk as she turns shocked eyes on him.

“Did you just Han Solo me?”

Peter can’t help the giggle.

“I take it back,” Meredith declares. “I’m leaving you in the next roadside vegetable stand with the rest of the cabbages.”

“You won’t,” Peter says with confidence.

“Guess not. But don’t test me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Scott Young hockey books are one of the things that hooked me into hockey as a kid, which was a huge thing since no one in my family is much of a sports fan. They are a little dated (slang like Gosh! Geez!) but they hit the heart of hockey and growing up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chirps from other kids are something Peter's getting a handle on. But no one warned him about hockey parents.

**“It’s a thin line. You go out there, you play hard, you like to chirp. But there is a line you can’t cross.” Wayne Simmonds**

 

_**January 23rd, 1994. St. Louis Rockets, Bantam.** _

Peter blows a breath out and touches his forehead to one knee, shifts, and then repeats on the other side. He sits up and turns to Scott Smith, the Rockets’ other goaltender. “Help me with the butterfly stretch, Smitty?” he asks. Peter doesn’t actually need to limber up too much since Smitty’s playing this game.

Peter’s been playing as hard as he can, wanting to prove his worth this first year in Bantam AA. At thirteen he’s one of the youngest players on his team. Coach Johnson’s pretty good, Peter thinks. He tries to use all his players equally through the start of the season, so everyone learns skills and gets experience. But with the championship coming up at the end of February, the balance of players with more ice-time has been tipping, and not always towards the good ones. It’s kind of rough for Coach when parents get on his back about their older, ‘better’ child getting benched.

Honestly, Peter’s okay riding the pine today. Smitty’s pretty quiet about games where Peter plays. He can't tell if Smitty’s actually unhappy about it but Smitty’s dad sure is. Like, what the heck. They’re just doing what Coach tells them, so overhearing Mr. Smith argue with Coach about Smitty getting more ice time by taking away Peter's because Peter's the rookie… Anyway, better just to play things cool. The Rockets are a good team, and Peter likes to win.

“Sure,” Smitty says. They sit on the rubber matting, brace feet and Smitty pulls. Peter’s nose nearly brushes the changing room floor as he counts, inner thighs burning with the familiar pleasant ache. “Okay, now me - five, ten, and fifteen,” Smitty says. Peter pulls, counts, shifts his hands to Smitty’s elbows and pulls again, waits and leans back. Smitty groans. “Okay, I’m good.” He straightens up, gulping.

“You okay, dude?” Peter says. Smitty’s pale, sweat beading his temples.

“Fine,” Smitty snaps. “No problem. You pulled too hard.”

Peter holds up his hands and backs off. “Sorry!” Twenty jumping jacks later, he’s warm enough and starts gearing up.

“No Walkman today, Killer?” Dean asks him. A defenseman, Dean’s nearly fifteen and rangy with growth. He has brown eyes and heavy brows that make him look more mature than his years, and Peter likes his dry humor. Dean’s dark hair falls over his face and brushes his nose as he tightens his laces.

Peter grins at the nickname. Easier to shout than Quill, or Quillster, Dean had shortened it to Killer after two practices. Peter liked it. “Nah. You know Coach banned it last week. _Some_ people just can’t handle my awesome Electric Slide.” He shoves his hands into his trapper and blocker and works his reflexes, doing quick darting movements.

“Some people thought you were having a fit,” someone shouts across the room.

“Pfft. You wish you had my moves.” Peter sways and does a couple of robot dance moves with his trapper and blocker and Dean leans away, a rare smile curling up one side of his mouth.

“Take it easy, Killer. Don’t damage the goods before the game.” Dean’s eyes are crinkled, pale cheeks faintly flushed, lips curving fully into a grin, and oh. He… Peter feels hot all over suddenly, heart pounding. He swallows his confusion and rallies.

“Moi?” Peter covers the lower part of his face with his blocker in a mockery of a Southern belle, hiding the heat he feels crawling up his neck. "I'd never!"

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. He tugs his jersey on and his head emerges, hair mussed  and falling into his eyes. Dean blows a breath up, but the forelock just flops and covers his eyes again. It looks annoying. Peter kinda wants to brush that stray piece back… Oh, shit. Shit. Peter wrenches his gaze away, focusing on Coach, who’s starting the pre-game talk. A quick side glance shows that Dean is looking ahead at Coach. Dean didn’t notice Peter acting weird. Good. He pushed down the tendril of guilty shame curling in his belly, and tries to pay attention.

The Rockets take the ice with the Falcons for a fast warm-up. Peter scoops up a loose puck and joins the line of players in a quick passing and shooting drill before they are called to the bench. Smitty taps Peter’s pads with his stick and points.

“Isn't that your mom?”

Peter looks, and a smile blooms on his face. Meredith is across the ice, waving at him through the glass. He hadn’t expected to see her until after the game, she was supposed to be on a date with Robert. He waves back. She points up to the area she’ll be in and gives him a thumbs up. It's too bad Peter’s just acting as the back-up goalie, but he’s glad she's here.

The first period, the team is doing pretty good. The Rockets’ offense is taking it to them, but the Falcons’ d-men are diligent in keeping the heat off their goalie. Smitty blocks a tricky shot on a breakaway but is slow getting on the rebound and the Falcons score. Everyone on the bench groans. As the shouts and whistles from the crowd subside, Peter can hear Smitty’s dad bellowing something incoherent at his son. Peter catches Dean’s eye. Dean grimaces and Peter ducks his head to stare at his stick as he turns it back and forth between his hands.

The period ends and the players skate to their benches for a few words with their coaches. Smitty’s hangdog, his cheeks flushed brilliant red. “Don’t worry about it, Smitts,” Peter tells him. “You’re doing great.” Smitty shakes his head, throat working convulsively. “You okay, dude?”

Smitty hesitates, clenches his jaw and tips his mask down. “I’m fine.”

The second period, the Falcons capitalize on their momentum and the Rockets’ defense can't hold them back, two more goals going unanswered until a lucky shot from the blue line give the Rockets their first goal in the game. Low-spirited, the team groups up again while the Zamboni resurfaces the ice.

“Okay, guys,” Coach says. “You’re thinking it looks bad. But you’ve come back from behind before, and - Smith, what’s wrong?”

“Nuh - nothing,” Smitty says. He swallows, swallows again, thrusts his water bottle blindly into the hands of a startled forward and bends over, retching. Liquid splashes on the rubber matting amidst groans and gagging noises from the team. Smitty spits and straightens, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. “‘M fine. ‘S nerves. I can play. Really.”

“The hell you can, kid,” Coach says, resting a hand on Smitty’s forehead. “You seem pretty hot and I don’t like how you’re shivering. Go get changed.”

“My mom’s a nurse,” Peter volunteers, worried. “She’s over there.”

“Good idea, Quill,” Coach says. Peter waves his stick wildly and gestures at Coach and Smitty. Meredith lifts a hand and begins to make her way down. Peter breathes in relief. Smitty’s glance at Peter is dark and miserable but he turns to go, the other players tapping his pads in commiseration. “Right, Quill. Get out there and warm up while I talk to the official. We’ve got maybe two, three more minutes. Meanwhile, the rest of you, you know what you need to do. Defense, tighten up. Quill’s going in cold and will need you. Everyone, keep your heads up, look for the opportunities. Out-shoot them - something will get through. Clear?”

“Yes, coach,” they chorus, and Peter takes the ice for some fast side-to-side drills and stretches. His heart is beating faster as it always does when he’s starting. But they’re down two points, and if they’re going to try and at least tie it up, he’s gotta be _perfect._ Poor Smitty. No wonder the Falcons got three past him.

The Rockets all skate up to Peter for a brief tap of sticks to his pads for luck. He narrows his eyes at the Falcons pouring onto the ice and breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, slow and regular.

“You good, Quill?” Dean circles back. “We got your back, don’t worry.”

“I know.” Peter rotates his head, loosening up his shoulders. “I got this.”

“Cool. Shut them down, Killer.” Dean grins and takes his position.

“Yeah,” Peter says to himself. His attention is narrowing, the crowd’s noises fading away, the arena shrinking down to this - the rectangle of white, the phantom sensation of his net behind. His hand flexes on his stick. “Yeah.”

The third period is an end-to-end scramble, but the Rockets manage to even up the score. Peter kicks away shots and plays the puck up when he has the opportunity. There's one really close call after a dirty rebound. Peter falls on the puck and players converge on him to try and dig it out, sticks jabbing into his pads, guys shoving and falling over his prone body. The whistle blows. _About time,_ Peter thinks. He _had_ the puck, it was covered, they should've stopped player sooner. He grits his teeth as the weight shifts off him. God, it sucked sometimes, playing with guys who were the size of buffaloes compared to him. But he focuses as hard as he can back on the game. And he does it. The Falcons' attacks meet the wall of his determination and bounce off. Nothing gets by him.

The game ends in a tie. Peter's disappointment is mirrored on the faces of his teammates and the Falcons as they do their post-game handshakes and murmurs of, “Good game.” But he smiles when the team clusters about him to congratulate him, tap helmets and commiserate.

“Nice one, Killer.” “Nearly had them, man.” “Good job.”

"Thanks." Peter pulls off his helmet and swipes the sweat away on his jersey. An arm drops over his shoulders. “Knew you could do it,” Dean says.

“Shut up,” Peter says, but returns the one-arm hug. Dean’s smile is lopsided as he tussles Peter’s sweat-flattened hair and Peter’s heart does a hard double beat as he looks up into Dean's grinning face. He shoves Dean’s arm off.

“What?” Dean’s giving him an odd look.

“Nothing. You stink,” Peter says.

“No,  _you_ stink,” Dean chirps, and that’s a relief. Peter's gotta stop being - he's just gotta _stop_. "Loser."

“Takes one to know one,” Peter fires back, and the others ooh and laugh. The official is waving on them off for the following game’s warm-ups and Peter trails his team off the ice.

The sound of an intense conversation being conducted in the corridor outside the changing room reaches his ears. Coach, Mr. Smith, the arena’s medic and his mom aren’t even paying attention to the players going past or interested onlookers. Smitty is waiting slumped against a wall in his street clothes, hands shoved into pockets and head down.

“- was good to finish the game!” Mr. Smith is saying.

“Absolutely not,” Meredith says, arms crossed. “His temperature’s much too high -”

“From playing!” Mr. Smith is standing too close to her. “That’s what happens when you play sports.” His voice is dripping condescension.

“Vomiting, shivering, headache, tiredness,” Meredith says, ticking the symptoms off on her fingers. “It’s influenza.” The medic nods along with her assessment.

“Game nerves! And what do you think you know about it?”

“Thirteen years of nursing tell me so,” Meredith snaps. “Take your son home, for pity’s sake, and take care of him.”

“Yes, before the rest of the team is infected,” Coach says. He’s frowning at Mr. Smith. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Gene, pushing him to play -”

“He’ll never move up to AAA if he doesn’t play!” The dark look Peter’s mom is giving Mr. Smith doesn’t stop his blustering. The medic and Coach exchange looks.

“Dad,” Smitty says. He looks close to tears. “Dad, can we please just go?”

Derailed, Mr. Smith swings his head to his son. “Fine. Fine. Your bag’s in the locker room? I’ll get it, Scott. Meet me at the car.”

“Mom?” Peter asks. She shakes her head at him, moving to talk with Smitty and Coach in low tones. Peter shrugs and continues after Dean to the changing room.

At the door, Peter has to shuffle aside as Mr. Smith fills the doorway, Smitty’s gear over his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he says to his skates.

“Think you’re such a hotshot, replacing Scott today?” Peter looks up at Mr. Smith, his mouth forming a denial. “You tell your whore mother she can’t sleep her way with the coach into getting you all the games.”

It’s like a punch in the chest. Mr. Smith nods, his breath hot on Peter’s face. His voice is low. “Think I haven’t noticed? New boyfriend every other time I see her? Not foolin’ anyone. The league’ll hear a thing or two. Scott’ll be back for the game tomorrow and you’ll be back on the bench. You're a talentless nobody. You’re not taking his place, you little pissant.” He stomps off down the hall.

 _‘But I don’t want to take his place_ ,’ Peter wants to say, but his voice is caught in his throat. He clumps to his place and starts to strip off, hands shaking.

“Hey,” Dean says. His brows are furrowed. “You okay?”

Dean’s grey eyes are warm with concern. He’s such a good guy. The sudden longing Peter has to lean against his shoulder, take some comfort for just for a moment gets all snarled up in Peter’s chest - embarrassment, anger at Mr. Scott, guilt in his pleasure at doing well in a game that should have been Smitty’s, shame. Peter has to cough before he can speak.

“I - I don’t feel so great. Maybe I’m getting what Smitty has.”

“Well, crap.” Dean draws back a bit. “I hope not, we’ll have to get _two_ replacement goalies from the A’s for tomorrow.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Peter says to the groaning room.

“We’ll see,” Coach says, entering. “If you’re not feeling well, call as soon as possible, Quill. Otherwise, you’ll be starting. Good work today.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Peter says. He slumps back, avoiding Dean’s eyes until Coach Johnson is finished the post-game speech and they are free to leave.

 

 

 

The silence in the car as Peter and Meredith drive home is thick. Peter rests his head against the window and closes his eyes, streetlights blooming pink streaks against his eyelids.

“You played great, baby. It was beautiful, the way you shut the door on the Falcons,” Meredith says.

“Thanks, Mom.” Peter wants to joke, to even just talk normally about how the game went. But there’s a heaviness in his chest that weighs down the words and he doesn’t have the strength to drag them up. He hears his mother sigh.

“Your friend Scott’s going to be okay. If his dad tries to bring him to the game tomorrow, I’ll call the league to rain fire and brimstone on his head.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay, little star?” Peter suffers the hand testing his forehead with only a hunched shoulder. He slits his eyes open but doesn’t turn his head.

“‘M fine.”

“Hm. I know you’ve officially been a teen since the eleventh of November, kiddo, but I wasn’t expecting to be on the end of a hormonal mood swing so soon.” She’s only half-joking.

“Thought you had a date with Robert,” Peter manages.

“Mm. I did,” Meredith says, and the tone catches at Peter.

“What happened? Did he stand you up?” Peter sits up, indignant. A different thought occurs. “Did you - you didn’t stand _him_ up to come to my game, did you?” Awkward. Robert is kinda of cool, Peter’s used to him and his mom being a thing these past few months. Academically, he knows his mom's great and pretty and all those things, but emotionally? It’s a little hard for Peter to resign himself to her eventually marrying. Though she totally deserves to, because she _is_ so great. It’s just - it’s been his mom and Peter together so long, he can’t even picture having a step-dad around the house. Even if Robert is okay. Kind of.

Meredith chuckles. “No, Peter. We broke up.”

“What? No way! Why?”

“Nuh uh, sweet child of mine. You first. You played a great third period, even if the team didn’t win. You should be bouncing off the ceiling. So - give.”

Ugh. She’s not going to let up, Peter can tell. “You’re not sleeping with Coach, are you?” he says. He means it as a joke. It… it doesn’t come out right, though.

“ _What?”_ Peter hunches into his seat at the volume of the outburst. “Why would you - whoa. Just, whoa. No, of course I’m not! I work, and when I’m not at the hospital, I’m taking care of things around the house, doing bingos and fundraisers for your team, shuttling you to practices weekdays and games on weekends - when would I have the _time_? I’m not even touching how you seem to think I’d be cheating on Robert when I’m in relationship. _Peter._ ”

The tangled-up feeling is growing in his chest again. “I’m sorry!”

Her eyes are fierce. “Why would you ask that, Peter? Did someone say something to you?”

“No!” God, he wishes he could curl up and die.

“Then if nobody gave you that idea, you must have come up with it on your own.”

“No, Mom!”

“If this is about me dating - Peter, I thought you’d outgrown being jealous of my boyfriends.”

“I did! I mean, I’m not! Not jealous, Mom.” HIs voice is twisting, throat closing up.

“Then do we need to have a talk about boundaries? And respecting my choices? Respecting women?”

“No,” Peter croaks.

“Well?”

“Smitty’s dad. He said -” Peter swallows, gets it out. “He said he’d tell the league you were - with - Coach so I could get more ice time. Said you were a - a -” He can’t say it.

The silence is terrible. Peter hears the skin on his mom’s hands creak on the wheel. “That so-and-so,” she breathes. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Sorry you had to hear that from an adult, and that I snapped at you about it.” She rubs a temple. “Not a good day for either of us, huh. Duh - _darn_ hockey parents.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says. “I don’t think… I don’t think you-” He still can’t bring himself to say it. Meredith’s laugh is low and choked.

“It’s not okay. And maybe I should have expected it sooner. People… small-minded, self-righteous people - they look at me and they see, well. I wasn’t married when I had you. I’m a single mother. It matters to a lot of people, that I had you alone.”

“I never wanted a dad,” Peter blurts. He can’t stand hearing her sound so, so _hurt_. Defeated. “I mean, I never needed one. Why would I? I got you.”

“Baby.” She takes his hand, squeezes it. “Thank you. No regrets here - you’re the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Peter kind of wants to kick Mr. Smith. He says so.

Her hand tightens on his, relaxes. “Please don’t, Peter. I’ll handle it.”

Colored signs slide by - gas station, fast food, strip mall, over and over. Slowly, Peter’s shoulders untighten. Meredith's hand remains in Peter's until she retrieves it to signal a turn. “Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can I ask now? About Robert?”

“Oh, that.” Meredith shrugs. “It just wasn’t working out. Men are high maintenance. They can get a bit selfish, wanting all your free time and more.”

Does she mean…? “You don’t have to, uh. You don’t have to take me to every practice. Or come to so many games. I can -”

“Peter,” Meredith interrupts. “I didn’t mean you. And that’s not going to happen. You know why? You’re the most important thing in my life. Some guys don’t understand.” Her eye roll is part sarcasm, part incredulity. “It’s like the concept of sharing never occurs to them.”

“Okay,” Peter says.

Meredith side-eyes him. “And don’t worry about my love life, either. I’m still having fun, steady boyfriend or not.”

“ _Mom.”_ Peter scrunches his face up. “Please.”

Her chuckle is wicked. “All right, I’ll spare you. This time. What do you say we end this terrible day with some misery waffles and ice cream? Get some protein into you at the same time, too.”

“Waffle House?” Peter punches the air at her nod. “Yes!”

“Be a good time to recap The List while we’re at this. I still can’t believe... “ Her face is brooding. “I’ll need to call your coach later tonight. Anyway. Someone - maybe an adult, _god_ \- chirps you. You…?”

“Ignore it,” Peter chants. “Pretend I didn’t understand. Make it a joke and laugh. Don’t get mad. Don’t make them mad. Watch their faces for the play, and shut. Them. Out.”

“And try not to say something that’ll get you a fist in the face, babe. And as always, if it’s really bad, tell a responsible adult…”

“Like you?” Peter uses his surprised voice.

“Yes, even me, smart alec. Me first of all. Now brace yourself: Waffle House on the right in three, two, one - _mark!_ ”

Peter braces as Meredith takes the turn slightly too hard, grinning. A hamburger and misery waffles. He feels better already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sports parents can be wonderful. Sports parents can also be the worst. I remember going to minor league games and while parents do shout encouragement, others think they are coaches and shout directions at their kids, or just scream at them when they make mistakes. Like, get a grip. The kid isn't your avatar representing a second chance to achieve greatness where you failed on the ice, loser. They're kids. And they need to listen to their coaches and not get confused or distracted.
> 
> When a player is exceptional, it drives the parents of other kids batshit insane sometimes. And they can be much more cruel and merciless than the other players could be. Pretty much any bio of a sports prodigy will have something about other players using tactics such as bullying, intimidation, attempts to injure. They don't often mention the parents. They should.
> 
> A good round up of terrible hockey parenting and being a horrible person in general can be read at Jamie McKiven's site, 10 Reasons Why I Would Never Coach Minor Hockey. Since AO3 isn't letting me put a LINK in, here: http://glassandout.com/2013/12/10-reasons-why-i-would-never-coach-minor-hockey/
> 
> Funny, a bit shocking, a good read.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slices of high school life, and Peter gets some validation that yes, really, he _is_ awesome.

_**“Whatever comes out of your mouth is what you’re responsible for.”**   _ **_Wayne Simmonds_ **

 

 

**September, 1995. Ritenour High School, St. Louis. Freshman year.**

“But why?” Peter whines at Josh.

Josh drags him along by his shirt, face set. “How long've we known each other?”

“Ugh, since we were, like, five?”

“And how long have we been doing hockey shit together?”

Well, he has a point, but Peter won’t go down without a fight. “Yeah, but that’s healthy. Exercise. You know.”

“Yeah, well. Time to expand your horizons before you become a total jock and I hafta get a new friend. Anyway, I _know_ you’ve read The Lord of the Rings, and you promised me, _and_ I’ll kill you if you don’t. Seriously.” Josh thrusts Peter into a seat next to a startled girl. “Guys. This is Peter. Hand him a character sheet before he escapes.”

“Oooh-kay,” drawls a boy with a folding screen thing in front of him. He passes over a Player’s Handbook and a sheet. “Choose a character race, class, a name, and start rolling for stats. Or I can give you a premade one?”

“Stats?” Peter’s voice breaks on the word. He glares at Josh. “You didn’t tell me it had stats!”

Josh’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

“Sure. Base stats. And you roll for action probability, see if you get a high enough percentage with bonuses to succeed,” says the girl in a snotty tone. “If you can handle the math, jock boy.”

“Honor student all through middle school, and I freaking rock at math, nerd girl,” says Peter. He grins. She's cute - dark eyes and smooth dark hair. And mean. He can dig that.

“All righty then.” The girl bares her teeth in something like a smile, braces glinting. “Don’t touch my dice and we’ll get along just fine. I’m Asuka. Asuka Varian. Yes, I'm half-Japanese, yes, I'll punch you in the balls if you make any stupid jokes about anime, schoolgirls or tentacles. My character’s a female half orc barbarian named Brakull. You?”

“Peter,” Peter replies, scanning the book quickly, “and I’m gonna be a male, half-elf, uh... bard!”

“Oh my God,” Josh mutters. His elbows are on the table, face in hands. “Why, dude, why?”

Asuka lifts an eye-brow. “Interesting choice. Hope you like dying, bard.”

“The name’s Star-Lord, bard extraordinaire,” Peter says. “And when the name of the great Star-Lord is known across the lands, when people sing my songs and call my name, then... I can never truly die. _Milady Orc_.” He winks, and Josh's head thunks on the table.

“Huh,” says Asuka. “We’ll see.” She tosses her smooth hair over a shoulder, a movement that warms Peter all over. “Make him roll for Charisma first, because he needs it. Star who?”

 

 

 

**“I would never say who or what was said,” Simmonds said. “It’s the code of the game, right?” Wayne Simmonds**

 

_**February 24th, 1996. St. Louis Blues, Midget Minor AAA.** _

“Good game,” Peter says, and shakes the hand of the last player. He skates to the gate, feeling all the sweaty weight of his padding dragging at him. Behind him, the green jerseys of the Wild converge into a mass of hugs and cheers. In the Rockets’ locker room, everyone is subdued. Some of the guys look like they’re going to cry if someone say much as speaks the wrong word, and Peter doesn’t feel far from it himself. It sucks so much, to have come so far, make it to the Midwestern Championships and lose. God, maybe Coach should have put Sutter in goal, he’d said Peter was more than ready, but maybe...

Peter thunks his head back against painted cinder-block and squeezes his eyes closed. Okay, that first goal had been flukey, a real garbage accidental rebound from his own team’s d-man, but that second - ugh, complete nightmare stuff. If he’d been just a little faster, stretched a bit further... In his visualization, the puck doesn’t whiffle past his catcher, it lands _just_ in the tip of his glove, just enough, just two more effing inches and he’d have been able to - _when_ is he going to finally get that growth spurt his mom’s been promising? He’s fifteen, he’s just about her height now, and -

“Heads up, Killer.” Barnsy nudges him from his funk, and Peter sits up to listen to Coach’s post-game speech, the usual - they did well, the loss doesn’t take away from the Rockets making it to the finals, blah blah and so on. Yeah, well. Peter'd rather have the trophy instead of consolation. The fact they were almost winners, but just not good enough, sucks balls.

The team breaks apart, players drifting off with bags and promises to kick ass next year. Peter hoists his own gear bag, looking for his mom's halo of dark blond curls in the corridor outside. She’s not with the other parents waiting for their kids, but talking with a well-dressed bald black man. The guy's wearing a shockingly bright teal tie and gesturing expansively as he talks. Meredith looks interested and also a little amused, head tilted to one side as she listens.

“Hey, Mom,” Peter says, weaving his way past several little kids playing some touch-and-go game in the hall and trying not to bean any of them in the head with his gear.

“Hey, now! There’s our little star goalie,” the man says turning to him. Peter grimaces. _Little_.

“Peter, babe.” Peter drops his bag for Meredith’s tight hug. “I’m sorry. You all tried so hard.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Not hard enough, I guess. Maybe next year.”

“It was a nice, tight game, real pleasure to watch,” the man says. “Up until the third period, anyway.” His eyes, a surprising copper-bright color in his dark face, are intent on Peter. Peter shrugs. He wants to disagree out of loyalty. He can’t. He saw what happened. “Your team could’ve tied it up. They went to pieces instead. But you, now.” The man’s voice drops low. “You didn’t.”

“If I did, we’d've been even more screwed,” Peter says. He accepts the ear-flick his mother gives him with only a wince.

“Peter’s always played his best under pressure,” Meredith says. “When the going gets tough…”

“The tough get going,” Peter finishes out of habit, the corner of his mouth lifting. The man beams.

“You sure did, boy.”

“Peter, this is Mr. Yondu Udonta,” Meredith says. “You’re too young to have heard of him; I remember when he played for the Caps and the Whalers."

"Was some time back, yeah," Yondu says, shoving his hands in his pockets and smiling at her.

"It was," Meredith says sweetly. "My dad was a big fan."

"Oh, c'mon now." Yondu's grin dims a little before brightening again. "Thought you were this boy's older sister, not his mother."

"Weak," Meredith declaims, and Peter bites his lip. God, his mom is great. "Thought an ex-defenceman would be better at reading the play."

"One would think so," Yondu says, shaking his head.

Meredith relents. "Weren't you were an assistant captain at some point, Mr. Udonta?”

“You’re too sweet, talkin’ me up like that. I did have that honor a coupla seasons. Most people jus' recall what a bad boy I was,” Yondu says, grinning, and yeah. Peter can totally see the hockey goon in his rough features and the glinting gold teeth. “But call me Yondu.”

“Peter Quill. Nice to meet you,” Peter says. Yondu’s huge hand engulfs his with friendly pressure..

“I was just tellin’ your mother how impressed I was with your play,” Yondu says. “You handled almost twice as many shots on goal than the Wild's goaltender - your save ratio is amazing. I think your team relies on you a lot. Too much, maybe. Not many goalies your size or age would’ve done so well, not without cracking.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. He feels slightly better about his game.

“Yes, Peter _is_ young,” Meredith says meaningfully.

“But not too young to start thinking of the future,” Yondu says, relaxed and smiling that broad smile. “Now, I’m meeting up with some people, but I’ve got a good feeling about you, boy.” He fishes a card from a breast pocket and passes it to Meredith. He shakes her hand for longer than is really necessary, in Peter’s opinion. “Take care, Peter. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, so expect a few calls givin' you some friendly advice. A true pleasure to meet you, Miz Meredith.”

“Have a nice dinner, _Mr_. Udonta,” Meredith says, and she’s definitely amused now.

Yondu favors them with one last bright smile before turning to a small group near the exit waiting. “Mark! Mr. and Mrs. Bell!” he says, arms spread. “Great game, boy, congratulations!”

Peter’s stomach sours. Mark Bell. Peter’s not ready to forgive him that sick wrister he’d used to power one past his glove. Mark looks past Yondu’s shoulder to catch Peter’s eye and flips him a small salute with his stick. Peter nods in response and picks up his bag to leave with his mother.

“But really, Mom. Who was that, though?” Peter asks. In response, Meredith passes him the card. Peter reads, blinks, then reads it out loud in disbelief. “NHLPA… certified…? He’s a scout?”

“He’s something,” his mother says sardonically, but Peter can tell she liked the man. "An agent, not a scout."

“And he’s here for Mark Bell.” Peter can’t help the swell of jealousy. Mark Bell’s sixteen - tall, handsome and a brilliant winger with the kind of talent that'll take him pro. No wonder Yondu wants in on that. Peter slings his bag into the trunk, hard.

“Peter, baby.” Meredith shuts the car trunk and catches his eye. “He came for Bell. But he noticed you too, you know.”

Peter’s mouth dries up. He licks his lips a few times. “You… he thinks I…”

Meredith’s smile is complicated. “You’re still too young. But...” She fingers the car keys. “You know how parents are. I’m always going to think you’re the best. But, Peter, listen - you’ve got real talent. The kind of talent I’ve only ever seen once before in my life. And it’s kind of nice that Mr. Udonta thinks you’ve got something, too. It just confirms what I’ve always thought. You’re my little star, baby.”

“Oh. Oh, wow. Really?” is all Peter can manage. He hugs her, and her arms close around his shoulders in a fierce embrace. “Wow. Oh, my _God_.” Of course it’s been a fantasy of his, playing pro someday, but he’d tried not to think of it too often. He’s too small. And yeah, always being the youngest in his age bracket in hockey means he’s always fighting to prove himself. But now? Now he’s never going to stop.

Meredith releases him, swipes at her eyes and gives an overly dramatic sniff. “Well. It’s something to think about. A lot can change in the future. But, yeah - wow.” Her smile is blinding. “So proud of you, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Peter says. “Wow. Thanks.” He drops into the passenger seat, a jittery exhilaration burning away all thoughts of the lost championship. “Oh, man.” He rummages through the glove box, cassettes clattering. There, this one. He jams it into the player and hits fast forward, looking for the song. Meredith laughs as Freddy Mercury begins crooning, _‘Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a good time…’_

“Cruise?” she asks.

“Yeah, just loop the parking lot, let’s go!” Peter ups the volume, rolls down his window and raises his voice with Meredith’s. “Don’t - stop - me - now!” He sees Barnsy and his parents at their car and points. “There, over there! Go, go, go!” She turns the car down the lane as Peter thrusts his torso half out the window. “Barnsy! Next year, Barnsy!” Peter shouts as the song swells behind him. His voice cracks and hits a high pitch in the middle and he doesn’t even care. “We’ll get them! We’ll win it!” Barnsy’s parents look nonplussed as they cruise by, but a grin splits Barnsy’s face.

“Next year!” Barnsy shouts back. “You’re crazy, man!”

“I’m a goalie, dude!” Peter hollers back before slipping back into his seat. He tugs his seat belt back into place and keeps singing out the window, loud and obnoxious and carefree. He feels like anything is possible. Maybe he should ask Asuka out on a date? He grins. Yeah, why not. If an actual player's agent can say he'll be in touch with Peter, then the sky's the limit. Meredith hits a speed bump too hard and whoops a laugh as they jounce.

_‘I’m gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping me…”_

 

 

 

 **“There’s a lot of guys that chirp you, hit the heart, and it’s a little funny. Sometimes you get chirped so good that you try to say something back but you get tongue-twisted. You just put your head down, laugh, and skate away because you’ve got nothing to say. A lot of guys get on you, but do it the right way.”** **Wayne Simmonds**

 

_**March, 1996. Ritenour High School, St. Louis.** _

Peter’s legs burn, he’s gasping and he doesn’t make the turn before the recording beeps. He groans and staggers over to where Josh is lying on the grass of the playing field, red-faced. He’s not the last one out. There’s one other guy from his group still huffing through the beep test. That’s good, isn’t it? He walks a small circle around Josh, trying to slow his breathing.

“I hate you, dude,” Josh says. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because I need you to come up to AAA with me?” Peter crouches into a leg stretch. “Because soccer’s good off-season training for hockey? Because you twisted my arm into playing D&D?”

“Screw you, you know you love D&D. Asuka dies inside every time you sing _power ballads_ for combat, you giant loser.” Josh smiles up at him. “But dude. It’s not going to happen. Triple A’s too competitive. I’m fine in double A. I’m not a complete hockey nerd like you, and that’s okay.”

“Yeah, okay.” But Peter can wish. He doesn’t like to think of leaving Josh behind, of Josh quitting hockey someday. “Well then, because… because there’s a better chance of impressing the ladies with your fine footwork and bare legs playing soccer?”

“If this was a co-ed team, maybe,” Josh says and yeah. True. Still. “Anyway, freshmen never make varsity.”

“Not with that attitude, mister,” Peter says. “C’mon, c’mon, up, up, up! You’re gonna get all stiff!” He dances around Josh’s head while Josh flails at his legs, fending him off.

“Man, what the hell are you on?” says a tall black student. Cool guy, Peter thinks, looking at the streamlined clip lines in the student’s short hair. “You seriously a freshman? You got, like, over ten on the test.”

Peter grins, sweaty and manic. “Twelve. Ain’t nobody got a motor like this in the back of their Honda,” he says. Over Josh’s moans of, “Oh my God, Peter, don’t -” he breaks into a little dance step, humming, ‘ _Baby got back.’_

“For real?” the guy says, heavy brows drawing down into a hard scowl. “You making fun? That is, like, the _worst_ white-boy dancing I’ve ever seen.”

As chirps go, Peter’s heard worse. “Hey, don’t be jealous of my killer moves.” He does the wave - back, forth, and points finger guns. “Dance off, bro!”

“Pay no attention to my friend,” Josh says. He’s locked his hands around Peter’s ankles and Peter can’t shake him free. “He’s brain-damaged.” Josh raises his voice over Peter’s muttered _get off me, I got this, get off!_ “Too many pucks to the head.”

“You’re a good man, saving your friend from himself,” the other says. “Because I’d destroy him showing him, ‘ _This is how we do it.’_ ” He executes a smooth Montell Jordan groove, which Peter can’t appreciate properly because Josh trips him.

“Nice. Right out of MTV,” Peter says into the grass. “You win, fly boy. This time.” The student laughs and extends a hand to help him up.

“You’re all right. Peter, is it? William.”

“Thanks. This is Josh.” Peter grins at William. “It’s our first try-out. For soccer, I mean.”

“You two play hockey?”

“Yup. For about eight years now,” Josh says.

“Well, shit. That explains it,” William says. “This’ll be my third time. Second string last year. And yeah, no freshmen made the team last year.” He lifts brows. “Got some fancy footwork to show us?”

“Even better than my dance skills,” Peter says. William laughs in disbelief. “Hey, man, never say die. I could be third string.”

The coach blows the whistle and gestures them over to start taking balls through a pylon course.

“Good luck with that,” Williams says and jogs off.

“Man,” Josh says. “I don’t know how you do that.”

“What?” Peter spins a ball between his hands as they wait.

“Manage to avoid getting your ass kicked with the stupid shit you pull.”

Peter shrugs. “It’s because it _is_ stupid that I don’t get my ass kicked. Anyway, it wasn’t like he was really pissed. Why, you worried?"

"Yeah, 'cuz I remember all the fights you used to get into when we were in grade school," Josh says.

"You _were_ worried. My hero!” Peter bats his eyes at Josh, who snorts and punches him on the shoulder. “Ow! No pads on, dude!”

“Suck it up. You’re a goalie, weirdo.”

“You were a goalie first. You’re the original weirdo.” Satisfied, Peter drops the ball, steadies it with a foot and waits for the whistle, feeling the rising thrum of competitive excitement building in him. Small size not withstanding, freshman or not, he’s going to make this team. He’ll show them what a hockey player can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha - Peter and the Askavarian. Asuka Varian. Yes, I know it's stupid. No eels for teeth, just a mean Japanese-American nerd. Peter likes tough, clever, competent girls. Smart kid. Anyway, a lot of my fic writing is just a lead-in for some terrible joke.
> 
> It took a bit of thinking to place Yondu in this universe, but in the end I thought a player agent would be best, and up his ally as a Ravager.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mom's opinion and scouting reports aside, not everyone thinks highly of Peter, as his bruised ego and split lip will testify.

**Central Scouting Report - Goalie Checklist: Patience (Does the goalie show patience instead of committing too soon?)**

 

_**April, 1996** _

The phone rings in the kitchen as Peter is lolling on the sofa, half-asleep with a history textbook propped on his chest. Meredith answers, and her soft voice blends with the drone from the TV as Sabrina the Teenage Witch messes up another spell.

“Peter?” He jolts, book hitting the floor. In the kitchen, Meredith is muffling the receiver against her shoulder. “It’s Mr. Udonta. He wants to talk to you.” A wild hope leaps in Peter’s chest, but dies at the somber look on Meredith’s face. She shakes her head slightly. “I’m sorry, baby. Not this year.” Feet dragging, he takes the phone.

“Hello?”

“Peter, my boy.” Yondu’s normally cheerful tone is tempered with seriousness. “I wish I could give you better news, but best you know right off. There won’t be a trip to Kitchener for you - you weren’t selected for entry into the OHL draft.”

“Good thing I didn’t buy my ticket yet,” Peter quips, but his heart is leaden. “Did - is there… Do you know why?” Yondu may be the first agent he’s ever talked to, but Peter’s seen scouts at games, unmistakable with their clipboards.

Yondu’s sigh is loud in Peter’s ear. “Well, it’s a couple of things, and not all about you, kid. First, well, you know Missouri ain’t exactly a hockey hot spot for scouting. Give it a few years, and the bird dogs will be all over the South. I’ve had my boys do their bit, but some people don’t take southern talent as serious. It’s easy pickings up north, and your stiffest competition. Second, a number of teams are pretty well set up with some quality goaltenders that aren’t seasoned enough to either make the jump to The Show, or old enough to get the hell out.”

Peter grimaces. He knows all too well how hard it can be to move up. Since goalies made up only around ten percent of a team’s roster, they had to fight tooth and nail for a spot, much less a starting position. “Yeah. I get that. But are the reports pretty positive? I mean, I know we lost the championship... But - wait, can you tell me what’s they’re saying about me?”

“Dish on scout gossip, top secret reports, you mean? No can do.” Yondu’s amused, Peter can tell.

“It’d help,” Peter says. “My play, I mean.” Not to mention his mental state. “Please. Anything. If it’s okay.”

“Well, you do ask nicely, and I personally feel you’re getting a rough deal here, Peter,” Yondu says. “Right. No details. There’s a good feeling about your physicality and condition, very positive things about your play, though a few seemed confused about whether your style was defensive or offensive.”

“It’s... both?” Peter says. He’s pretty confident playing in both the crease and beyond it. “It depends on the play.” What kind of idiot couldn't switch up with changing plays as they happened?

“‘Course it does,” Yondu says. There’s a pause. “The only real concern seemed to be around your age and size.”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t help that!” Peter says. Damn it, this _always_ came up. How hard did he have to play? He remembers himself. “Sorry. It’s just so - anyway. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Udonta.”

“Yondu, don’t forget you can call me Yondu. Your mother did raise you proper, though.” Yondu’s chuckle is raspy. “How tall are you now?”

“Five foot five,” Peter says. Just. Yondu makes a non-committal noise.

“Well, any advice I give you at this point is still necessarily free, but here ya go. You keep playing like you do, Peter. I’ll keep putting a few words to the wise in some ears. I still got a good feeling about you, boy. Meantime, do your best to put on a few inches.”

“I’ll try,” Peter says. “Thank you for calling, sir. Uh. Yondu. I appreciate it.”

He hangs up. Meredith is leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He doesn’t know what his expression must look like, but in a quiet voice she says, “Oh, babe. Sometimes… I wonder if it’s all worth it, this hoping and waiting. It’s never going to be easy.”

“But I want it,” Peter says. He isn’t going to say it - that there’s always the possibility he won’t make it. Won’t be big enough or good enough. He just knows that the desire is always there, burning in his chest. He loves hockey, and he’s come this far. He sucks in a breath. “Mom, why did I have to be born in November?” When he’s playing boys with their birthdays in January of the same year, he can’t help feeling resentful. They’ve got ten more months of hockey experience and physical growth than he does. It matters too much, especially with coaches and trainers.

“Oh.” His mother lifts her brows. “Well, when it’s winter and cold, and a man and a woman love and want each other very much--”

“Augh!” Peter claps his hands of his ears. “No, not again! La, la la la, can’t hear you!”

“You asked,” Meredith says. “You okay though?”

Peter lowers his hands, shrugs. “Not really. I’m not surprised, but… I hoped.”

“Me too, little star,” Meredith says. “Cookie?”

“Yes, please,” Peter says. “That’d be great.”

 

 

 

**“[Players] should have thick skin. Fighting isn't always an option. I try to have a measured response.” -Wayne Simmonds**

 

**_June, 1996_ **

“Peter? What happened to your lip?” Meredith asks. Peter jolts as Meredith comes into their small kitchen, laden with plastic bags. He hadn’t even heard the backdoor open, he’d been so absorbed with his thought as he built a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Can you help me put this stuff away? Lord, keeping a teenage athlete in enough food is breaking my back,” she says. “Asuka’s braces again?” The humor in her voice makes Peter flush.

Peter grabs the bag full of drinks, head down. “No, Mom,” he says, taking his time putting the juice away, careful to keep his face turned away. “That was just, you know. It was just for a little while. Just after Valentine’s Day and all. Ages ago.” And it was heady stuff - for about two weeks. Asuka Varian’s so freaking cute. Mean as all get out, too, which he found hot for some reason. That ferocity unfortunately translated to to other areas. Braces _hurt_. Peter wishes his Mom would forget it. He wishes _he_ could forget it. He and Asuka were okay now, and definitely better off as friendly foes in the D &D club.

“Aw, you never said. Well, it happens. How fast they grow up,” Meredith says.

“I know,” Peter says. “I’m just going to eat my sandwich in my room, if that’s okay.”

“What, not going to make me one?” she says. “I’m starved - you wouldn’t believe the shift I had at work.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says, hands already moving towards the peanut butter.

“Peter.” He freezes. “Look at me.” _Busted_. He should have abandoned all sandwiches and bolted for his room. Not that _that_ would have looked suspicious or anything.

Peter turns, jar in hand. Meredith sighs. “Oh, baby. What happened? I thought you were doing group study at Darryl’s.” She traces the outline of the bruising high on his cheekbone. “Did you ice it?”

“Uh, yeah.” At her lifted brow, he clarifies. “Been doing it off and on since I got back.”

“From Darryl’s?” He nods. She sighs. “You going to explain how you came home with what’s shaping up to be a great shiner and a fat lip?”

Peter’s heart is beating faster. Different stories, excuses flit through his head - _it was a mugger, I walked into a door, we were goofing around wrestling and -_

“Peter.” Meredith’s voice is cajoling but firm. The quiver in Peter’s stomach is spreading, hands trembling around the peanut butter jar.

“Um. I - Darryl did it. We - we sort of had a fight.”

Meredith’s blond brows contract. “A fight? You and Darryl? And he hit you?” At Peter’s jerky nod, she presses. “Why?”

Peter swallows. “Because I told him I’d be gone all summer for goalie camp in Toronto.” _Please, please, Mom, let it go._

Meredith is still frowning. “Okay… but I thought all your friends knew that already. And it’s not like he even plays hockey, he’s one of your soccer friends, right? So there’s no reason for him to be angry that you -” She stops, eyes narrowing at something she sees in his face. A long moment passes while Peter’s stomach twists. “That you’re going away.”

He can’t look at her. He fastens his gaze to a scuff mark on the linoleum beyond her elbow. The jar is taken from his hands; he feels her breath on his bowed head as she leans past to set it on the counter.

“Okay,” she says, and God, she won’t stop, it’s going to tear him apart, he can feel himself coming to pieces already. “You were at Darryl’s. Just the two of you?” He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. “And... you told him you were leaving for the summer. You fought. That’s right?”

“Yes.” The word is pushed out through numb lips.

“Peter, baby.” He closes his eyes. “You know I won’t get upset, no matter what. Tell me why he got so angry he punched you.”

And there it is. All his plausible lies break and clatter away at her soft tone; he can’t do anything but tell her. Peter releases the breath he’d been holding. He opens his eyes but keeps looking at the floor. “Because. Because I told him - I told him we couldn’t be a thing anymore. Him and me.”

Meredith draws a sharp breath. Peter knows he’s just dropped a huge bomb, but he’s got to finish, to _explain_. He tries to drag his gaze up to her pale face, but his eyes flick away again. “Darryl was, he was - we’ve been… I guess he was like a boyfriend. But I didn’t think it was that serious. We were just messing around and there’s all the guys on my teams and in school and how they are about, about....” The words are speeding up, he knows he's not making sense anymore. “And I didn’t want them to know, I don’t want anyone to know, and Darryl was - he was so - I’m sorry, Mom! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” His throat closes up entirely and his eyes are burning. God, he’d fucked up, was fucking this up so bad.

“Sh, baby, it's all right.” His mom’s arms are around him, his fists clenching into the back of her shirt. The curve of her shoulder is soft against his forehead as he struggles not to cry. But Peter can't stop the trembling coursing through his body. Meredith mutters an exclamation when she feels him shaking and rubs his back. “Breathe, baby. I got you, you're going to be okay.”

He tightens his grip, fabric twisting in clenched hands, grinding his head into her shoulder harder. Time passes, and slowly his breathing steadies under the stroke of her palm over her shoulders. He doesn’t want to let go, afraid to break away from the comfort of this moment. But finally he relaxes his hands, loosening his hold. Her eyes are pink, her mouth trembling, not able to hold its usual soft curve. “I… didn’t want you to know,” Peter says.

She runs a hand over his shoulder, clasps it. “That… you were dating a boy?”

“Yeah. No,” he contradicts himself. “I - its - I don’t just like girls, that way. I - like boys too. And, and, I have for a while.” Peter remembers Dean’s shy, sweet smile from back when he was in Bantam hockey. The physical reactions he would have sometimes, looking at other boys. It hadn’t started with Dean, but his crush on the defenseman had only confirmed it. And it hadn’t stopped, no matter how he’d tried to squash it. He wasn’t a faggot, not really. And he didn’t want people treating him differently when they found out - but he… “I still like girls, though,” he says. “Maybe - maybe I’m just confused.”

He isn’t, though. He can’t help what his body tells him when he looks at anyone attractive, no matter their sex. Peter bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe his mom will have the answer for him, just tell him this once what he should do. What he should _be_. Peter knows what other people expect from him - the star athlete, the goalie prodigy - but fuck them. It’s his mom’s opinion he cares about most.

“Oh, honey,” Meredith says. “Girls… and boys both. It must have been so hard for you. I wish you’d told me sooner. I hate thinking about you getting wound up about this.”

“Yeah.” The word escapes in a rough whisper. “Sorry.” He’s sorry, for so much, he can’t even get it all out.

“Peter,” Meredith says, and his shoulders tighten, waiting for a declaration, for disappointment, condemnation, he doesn’t know what. “I don’t care - if you like girls, or boys, or both. It doesn’t matter. I’ll always love you, no matter what. Okay?”

He gulps, nods, and goes back into her open arms. “Okay.” Her hug is hard, rocking him side to side. “Love you too.”

“Of course, if you tell me next you love the Montreal Canadiens, we will need to have a _very_ serious sit-down talk,” Meredith says. Peter’s laugh is croaky but genuine.

“But Patrick Roy,” he says, and it’s a weak chirp, but worth it when she chuckles and draws away.

“Never mind him, he’s with the Avs now. You are free to worship his god-like goalie skills as much as you like.” Meredith runs a hand over Peter’s hair before blowing a breath. “Thank you, kiddo.”

Peter rubs his smarting eyes. “For what?”

“For telling me. Trusting me.”

“You’re my mom,” he says, helplessly. He does trust her. And he feels like an idiot for not coming to her to sooner.

“Yes, yes I am,” Meredith says. “It’s been mentioned a few times, I think.” She scrubs her hands together. “Now. How about that sandwich?”

God, she's the best. His mouth twitches into a smile. “Sure thing.” In companionable silence, he makes a second sandwich while she finishes putting away groceries. They sit at the small kitchen table.

“You don't really think you're confused, do you?” Meredith says. “About what you like.”

He takes a bite of sandwich. Under her concerned eyes, he shakes his head minutely.

“Ah.” She tears a corner of crust, rolls it between her fingers. “In a lot of ways, that’s good. Knowing. Half the battle, you know.”

“G.I. Joe,” Peter replies.

“Speaking of battles,” Meredith begins and Peter braces. “You and Darryl.”

Peter’s heart sinks. God, he felt bad about the whole mess. “He, uh. He was pretty pissed - I mean, ticked off.”

“About dumping him for, what? Hockey? Some summer action? I would be, too, if that’s how it went down.” Meredith takes a bite, waits.

“It wasn’t like that,” Peter says. He shrugs. "Maybe a little?"

“So?”

“It was about Asuka, and me liking girls too, and him thinking I was just, I dunno. Playing around. Like, trying out how it was with a guy. He said I was just faking. Being…”

“Gay? Or bisexual?” Meredith throws out and Peter groans.

“I wasn’t thinking about it like that, honest, I didn’t think he was taking it so seriously! And things just kinda... escalated.”

“You weren’t thinking," Meredith says. "That's what I’m getting here. Not about him, anyway.”

Peter hunches his shoulders. “I was just - “

“Confused, yes. But you were also being a dick. Thought I’d raised you better, bud,” Meredith says. "Okay. Fighting like this - you know I'm never going to be okay with it. But if you can, try to make this right with him. He is - or was - your friend and teammate, and it _was_ a relationship, no matter what you thought. He deserves that much."

Peter crams the last of the sandwich in his mouth to avoid speaking, but nods at Meredith's hard look. _Fuck_. Yeah, he’d been kind of an asshole to Darryl. Not that he liked having it pointed out to him.

“I really don’t like that your disagreement got physical like that. You didn’t -?”

He shakes his head, cheeks still bulging like a chipmunk’s and motions a shove away.

Meredith sighs. “Well. Okay then. Not great, but fine. I’d rather you weren’t with any person who thought he could hit you. Or the reverse.”

"Okay." Peter is silent a moment, worries coalescing into a question. “What about hockey?”

Meredith pauses before answering. “Well. You’re still fifteen. And if you’re pretty sure about being attracted to boys _and_ girls… You already know what kids… what _people_ are like, on the ice and off. And you said you don’t want people to know. If you’re going to continue playing and try and go pro, then you’re going to have some tough choices to make.”

“Wish people didn’t care,” Peter says.

“So do I, Peter,” Meredith says. “I only care that it’s going to be hard on you, whatever you decide to do. But - take your time. Think about it.”

“Okay,” Peter says.

Meredith scrubs a hand through her curls. “Well. Guess I’ll see how much literature I can dig up on bisexuality for us to read. And discuss. Oh, so much talking.”

 _Oh, God_. Peter covers his face with hands, muffling a small scream. “ _Mom._ ”

“Half the battle, kiddo. And the other half is making sure you’re going to be safe.” Her tone is only half joking. _Ah, crap_. Peter’s not really surprised, what with Meredith being a nurse. She’s worked with AIDS patients, furious on their behalf at how they were treated by the ignorant.

But Peter wants - no, _needs_ to keep the mood light right now, so he only makes a strangled grunt of agreement through his fingers.

“Good. This will be interesting,” Meredith says, cheerful and smiling.

 _Help,_ Peter thinks. But he doesn’t mean it, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about making the coming-out scene more angst ridden, but nah. Life is hard enough in these situations, that I'd rather Peter have a supportive mom. Besides, when one's a nurse, one tends to be shock-proofed and more broad minded.  
> Kudos loved, comments always welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one and nothing's going to bring Peter down again, as everything his mom's ever taught him about handling shit talk comes together like a plan by the A-Team. Especially not some tool from freaking Sudbury or wherever.

**“Mothers, wives and girlfriends are fair game [for chirps].” Quote from an anonymous NHL player.**

_**July, 1996** _

It’s with relief that Peter packs up his gear for the annual trip to Mississauga. He’s looking forward as always to his time at Vlad’s exclusive goalie training camp - he always comes back with new and better skills. But putting behind the mess with Darryl is good. Peter thinks he’s been pretty lucky - with vacation happening, he hasn’t had to deal with anyone from school giving him weird looks or talking about him. Hopefully Darryl will just keep what happened to himself because he’s too embarrassed or angry or whatever. Peter’s been thinking, and mostly what he’s thought is that who he likes is no one’s business. If going pro is ever going to happen for him… No. If he isn’t eaten alive, then he’ll never live down being the guy who plays on both sides of the centre line. He’s pretty sure that zero percent of scouts will look first at his talent. He can’t let that happen.

“Ugh, how can you be this awake?” Meredith wanders into the kitchen, still in pyjama bottoms and a wrinkled Leafs t-shirt. She slumps at the table and eyes Peter, who is squatting in front of Grandma’s old fridge, carefully juggling three tennis balls off the metal door. “You _woke_ me, child. Tell me you didn’t use that racket to get Mom up to fix you breakfast.”

Grandma Janine chuckles and gives the scrambled eggs another stir before turning the heat off and filling plates, heaping one for Peter high. “Not at all. It’s nice having someone who’s awake at the same time as us old retired folk. Bacon for you, Peter?”

Peter’s eyes are flicking as he tosses and catches, tosses and catches. “Uh. Yes, please. What kind?”

“Peameal. Nice thick slices.”

“Aw, yeah!” An extra hard flick sends a tennis ball arching over his head and Peter throws himself back to catch it. He misses and sprawls on the linoleum as the ball bounces away. He blinks a few times at the upside down view of his mother and gives her his sweetest smile. “Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning to you, too, babe.” Meredith takes the balls he passes up to her and sets them on the table. “Coordination practice going well, I see.”

Peter rolls to his feet and carries the plates to the table. “I wanna be able to do that while kicking like a Russian dancer, the way Vlad showed me. It’s gonna help a lot, I think.”

“I’m sure, but try not to do more than two impossible things before breakfast,” Janine says, seating herself and passing Meredith a cup of coffee.

“I’m tired just looking at you,” Meredith says. “You sure you’re my child? All this early birding.” Peter rolls his eyes at her. He folds a slice of bacon in half with his fingers and shoves it in his mouth, leaning away from Meredith’s half-hearted cuff.

“Didn’t sleep well, honey?” Janine asks.

“Mm.” Meredith inhales steam, eyes closed. “I did, just - guess I’m still not awake enough. Or I’m coming down with something.” She does look tired, Peter thinks, with faint shadows under her eyes. He nudges the milk jug closer to her elbow and she smiles at him before adding some to her coffee.

“Greg can drive Peter in today,” Janine says. “Stay home, relax.” Meredith hums in agreement.

“Sure, do that, Mom,” Peter says. “But Vlad was asking after you, saying he wants to talk to you about my development. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh, Dad could do that,” Meredith says. “He’s got a good handle on your skills.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. You’ve hardly ever even met the guy. Just, like, in passing when you pick me up after practice!” Peter says. He’d love for Vlad to meet his mom and see how awesome she is. The guy’s pretty much a hockey legend and she loves hockey - there’s no way they wouldn’t hit it off. Not that Peter is expecting them to, like, actually date or something. Vlad’s happily married, after all. But it would be so cool.

“Maybe later, Peter,” she says and she really does look tired. Peter decides to let it drop.

 

 

 

“Three. No pause, Pyotr,” Vlad says, dark eyes assessing as Peter slides through the box drill in front of the net. “Faster. Two. One. Good, very good.” He blows the whistle for everyone to change drill stations. “Better every time,” he says, and Peter accepts the approving rub over his helmet with a grin. “Shooting station. Go.”

Peter skates the to station, tipping his helmet back to rub stinging sweat from his eyes. Man, he’s glad Vlad thinks he’s improving. The time he spends in this camp is the most valuable thing he’s ever had for tips and tricks for goalies - nothing in St. Louis compares. Heck, most coaches don’t even know what drills to give him - he relies a lot on photocopies of things Vlad’s set for him to practice. And if Vlad is impressed with his progress, then maybe he has a chance to make the jump soon - sign a National Letter of Intent promising he’ll go into an NCAA college with their scholarship programs, or hope for the OHL draft. He’s still not as big as he could be, but it’s not like he’s a d-man. Finesse and speed work just as well as size to build a Peter-shaped wall in front of his net.

Brad, an older boy from somewhere in northern Ontario, gives him a sharp grin and dumps the bucket of pucks on the blue line. A heavy plastic sheet with a goalie printed on it and holes to aim for covers the net. Peter kicks a puck free and positions it near the toe of blade. With a flick, he shoots at the left upper hole. It catches on the bottom lip but flips in. Not bad, could give it a bit more lift.

“Coach seems to like you a lot,” Brad says. “You get a lot of one-on-one time with him.”

“I dunno. I guess?” Peter lobs another puck. It’s a clean shot and hits netting. “I’ve been coming up for his camp since I was ten.”

“Oh, that explains it,” Brad says, but his tone is loaded.

“Explains what?” Peter watches Brad take a shot. It ricochets through a hole by the printed goalie’s head. _Not bad_ , Peter thinks. He likes having someone to measure himself against so he can beat them.

“All his, ‘So good, Pyotr, amazing, Pyotr, the best, Pyotr.’ I just figured he was giving you extra special attention because your mom is giving him some. You know, tit for tat.”

Peter tamps down the anger that flashes through him. First, Vlad and his mom would _never._ Second, well, It’s not like he hasn’t heard this shit before. “Weak, dude.” His next shot bounces off plastic tarp, though, and Brad grins to see it.

“I mean, who wouldn’t? Your mom is pretty hot.”

Peter keeps his voice steady and relaxed. “Hey, back off already and do the drill.” It’s not even like they’re in a game against each other. Why do people have to be such assholes? Brad’s weird jealousy of this imaginary favoritism is just stupid. Annoyed, he skates a quick circle around his puck and shoots with barely a glance. It’s a beauty into the upper right.

“Nice one, Quill. You’re much better than your mom. Bet she just lets them in easy.” Brad waggles his brows, sliding his trapper along his stick’s shaft.

It doesn’t even make _sense_. Peter frowns at Brad. “Got kind of a dirty mouth, don’t you?”

Brad wrinkles his big nose. “And you don’t, because you’re a little princess, eh? What’s wrong? Can’t chirp back? Or you need someone to slip one in your five hole first? Loosen you up a little?”

Peter’s tired of this same old shit. “What’s your point, Bradley?” he says, drawling the name out. “You gonna be the one to do that? Because, dude - really, _really_ not my type.” _Shit._ He bites the inside of his cheek. Fuck, he shouldn't have said that.

Brad fires another puck, hard. It pings off the net’s frame. “Weak. You’ve probably never even had a girlfriend.”

And that’s what finally gets to Peter. “Fuck you, I’m not ugly like you, I’ve had loads -” A whistle blows two short blasts, the signal that the drill is ending. Peter shuts up and concentrates on shoveling as many pucks at the target as he can before a long shrill ends the drill. Peter shoves away from Brad and joins the others, head down and flushed with anger. He knows he can’t let assholes throw him off his game. He’s got to do better.

“Nice work, everybody,” Vlad says as the players surround him. “Last thing today - bag skate.” His eyes crinkle with laughter as everyone groans. “Only a joke. Mostly. But goalies need strong legs, need speed - or how will they get on the puck first? So, we end with something to stretch your legs a little. All morning, playing in the crease, drill, drill, drill - you must be ready to show me how fast you are, yes? Faster than the forwards, the defensemen?”

There’s a chorus of, “Yes, Coach!” from the relieved players.

“Good. It’s a race - goal line to goal line, six times for the young people, ten times for old. And no shame if you don’t win - only go fast, do your best. Is all I ask.” Vlad joggles the helmet of Kyle, a tiny kid who barely reaches past his waist. Peter wonders if he were the same size when he first started coming to camp all those years ago. Also, race, ha. The kids in camp are friendly, but they’re also athletes, which means everyone’s competitive as hell. Vlad sure knows how to push buttons.

They are split into two groups. The kids twelve and under start at the whistle, smooth enough in their cumbersome pads. Their enthusiasm is obvious, but somewhere around the fourth pass, some are visibly flagging. Peter and the others shout encouragement through the last two passes, cheering as the last straggles over the goal line, puffing.

“Good work, Morrison, everyone,” Vlad says. “Cool down, and go change. Last line, get ready.”

Peter sees Brad from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn his head. Okay, he’s not the oldest one and he doesn’t have the longest legs, but he sure as hell is not going to come in behind this jackass from the pine-infested north. Peter attended a three-day power skating clinic the week before goalie camp, and had managed to impress the coach as well as the forwards and d-men by being the only goalie there - and by doing it in full gear. He’s going to blow the doors off that idiot.

The whistle goes.

 _Skate_ , side-stop in a shower of snow, turn and skate, the grind of blades into ice pushing him forward at an angle.

Two, three, four, and his breath is coming hard, legs beginning to ache. To his left, three others are ahead, big guys. No problem, he can let them set the pace. To his right he can see Brad. He’s keeping up. Peter lets the momentum of his swinging arms carry some of the effort, he needs the energy to stay the distance.

Five, six, stop, turn, skate. His legs are starting to burn, nothing bad, just in a familiar way that tells him he’s working hard.

Seven, and one of the guys on the left is dropping back, he’s behind Peter’s field of view. Brad’s still there on his right, and Peter can hear his breath rasping. Good. _Work for it, asshole._

Eight, and Peter lets his stride hit a longer glide, slowing him enough for Brad to edge just ahead. Two more turns. Peter hits the goal line, stopping so he’s facing Brad as the other is pushing off. Brad’s eyes flick to his face. Peter’s grin is wide, teeth clenched. Now - now he’s going to _really_ skate. He digs hard.

It would be nice to say it’s easy. It’s not, and his legs are screaming at him. Brad’s gasping now, slowing, pace broken. It takes three quarters of the length of the rink for Peter to pass him, close enough to touch. But he does, and for the final turn, he has enough time to smile at Brad again. If he had the breath, he’d say something bad ass. _Hasta la vista, baby_ , maybe. He doesn’t, though. He puts his head down and throws himself into the final run. Those two guys are still ahead, and if he can catch them…

He doesn’t. The glass at the end of the rink is spattered with snow as Peter leans back into his final stop. He wobbles, glides and half-collapses against the boards, chest heaving. Third. Third’s not bad. Still would have been cooler to be first. He lets himself slide to the ice, back against the boards, watching the last guys cross the line. Brad manages to come fifth.

A squeeze bottle taps his face grill and Peter looks up. Vlad’s smiling and Peter takes the bottle with a croaked, “Thanks.” He tilts his head back and squirts through his grill into his mouth. Vlad’s still watching, brows raised, so Peter offers it back.

“You want to win very badly, don’t you?” Vlad asks, taking the bottle.

“Yeah,” Peter says.

Vlad only nods and skates away, clapping his hands for attention. “Congratulations, MacNeil. Everyone did very well, you skated with spirit. Now - up! Do your cool downs, then off the ice for stretches.”

Peter clumps past the younger goalies hefting bags of gear and chattering with parents in the halls. He claps Kyle on the shoulder as he passes. “Nice work today. Your trapper work is looking sweet.” He knows what it’s like, being the little guy - no reason not to encourage him. Kyle beams at him, looking even tinier than he did on the ice while Peter’s still in his skates.

The locker room is cluttered with skates and equipment, guys stripping out of sweaty gear and doing stretches. Brad’s talking with another boy but looks up as Peter thumps down on a bench. “Hey, princess! Back for more love?”

“Ugh, no one wants what you have,” Peter says. A few kids are grinning, watching the by-play.

“Lots of girls want up in this,” Brad says. “It’s hard, trying to fight them all off. Sometimes, I even lose.” He winks.

 _Gross_. “Yeah, because you’re not fast enough, I guess,” Peter says and then mentally curses. Damn it. He shouldn’t be trying to escalate this.

“Oh, snap!” Mac cackles.

Brad rips a piece of sock tape free. “Yeah, well, maybe you should be asking for tips, princess. A momma’s boy like you? Reeks of cherry, if you know what I mean. You even like girls?”

Peter’s ears are burning. Brad's getting too close to the truth, and that's bad, real bad. His mind races, and inspiration strikes.

“Nice of you to care, Bradley," Peters says, sarcastic-sweet, "but I got a girl already, thanks, no help needed.”

“Like hell you do,” Brad says.

“No, really,” Peter insists. “She's from Canada, but she lives in St. Louis now, like me. Even came up with me on vacation.”

“No way,” someone scoffs. "You’re lying.”

“What? You haven’t seen her around the arena?” Peter asks, incredulous. “She’s, like, the best, dude. So…” He makes a little squeezy motion with his hands, indicating something springy. There’s a hoot. “Yeah. She’s great. But tough. You don’t mess with her, and nothing gets past her.”

“Bullshit. It’s your mom, isn’t it,” Brad says.

There’s a chorus of groans and gagging noises at that. Peter crinkles his brow. “Dude. _Gross._ No. What is your issue with my mom, anyway?” He’s pretty happy with how that comes out, like Brad is the sick one.

“So what’s this hottie's name, Quill?” Mac calls.

“Never mind that. What’s she look like?” asks another.

Peter gives his best shit-eating grin. “Her name? Alyssa Milano.”

There’s a pause before the rooms erupts in groans and jeers. Brad laughs. “Knew it.”

“Screw you, you’ll hurt her feelings. She’s right here, Bradley.” Peter pats the left of his bulky Vaughn leg pad. “This is Alyssa.” He strokes the inside of the right pad with his thumb. “Milano.”

Brad opens his mouth, but Peter overrides him. “And she’s the best, Brad. So easy. Does it in every position - stand up, lying down, and the butterfly? _Sweet_. Spreads when I ask, loves when I go down.” He’s locked gazes with Brad, who has an unattractive flush crawling up his neck. Peter leans forward, daring him to look away. “I think it’s how I move in the crease that makes me and Alyssa so tight, man. She knows a good thing when it’s on top. ‘Cause I got skills. Not like you, _Bradley_. So stick that in your five-hole, you fuckin' sieve.”

“ _Dude,”_ Mac breathes. “Um...”

Peter smirks. _Chirp that, asshole._ But all movement in the room has halted. Brad’s not even looking at Peter. The sweat on Peter’s skin goes icy. He turns his head.

Coach Vlad is standing in the door, holding a sheaf of papers. He looks at Peter, one brow slanted up, but only says, “These are the drill sheets for tomorrow. Miller, would you pass these out? Bradley, Pyotr, I’ll see you after you change.” He leaves.

There’s a beat, and the room explodes. “Aw, someone’s in _trouble_ with _Dad!_ ” “Holy crap, Pete!” “...and all that time, he’s just standing behind you, I nearly died…”

Oh, shit, shit, shit. Peter buries his face in his hands. _Shit._ His face is burning. “Someone. Just kill me,” he mumbles. "Do it now while I'm not looking, okay? Just - use your stick and club me. Like, seriously."

“Face the music, princess,” Brad says. He’s actually grinning when Peter looks up through his fingers, the asshole. “Can’t believe you said _I_ had dirty mouth, like - what the hell, man?” He’s not angry, Peter realizes. He actually sounds a bit admiring.

“You're unbelievable,” Peter says.

Brad shrugs and wipes down his skate blades. “Guess you’re not such a pussy after all. And definitely not Coach’s favorite, now.”

“Oh, screw you, you dick,” Peter says.

 

 

 

It’s not that the lecture from Vlad was bad, Peter thinks. Aside from wanting to crawl under a rock and die. It was just how Vlad never mentioned once anything he’d overheard, and only gently lectured him and Brad on how players should conduct themselves and sportsmanlike behavior. Neither of them offered a protest or an explanation, only saying, “Yes, Coach, sorry, Coach, we understand Coach,” while staring at their feet. God. Peter hates ‘disappointed in you’ lectures. Vlad had managed to make him feel the same way without even saying the words.

Somehow, explaining to his mom later why he’s so glum is much easier. “I think Vlad’ll definitely want to talk to you, Mom,” he tells her, seating himself on the arm of the sofa so he’s facing her. “I messed up today big-time.”

His mother closes the paperback romance she’s been reading, resting it on her chest. “Oh? Do tell, my falling star. Your story’s got to be better than this one.”

“Yeah,” Peter mutters. He tells her, fudging over what he’d said to Brad. Meredith quirks a brow at him.

“How much are you censoring for my sake?”

“A lot,” Peter says.

“Was it imaginative, at least?”

“Not him,” Peter says. His lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “But I, uh. I kinda cribbed from that one book you gave me. The _Guide to Getting it On?_ ”

“Oh good, so glad it’s coming in handy,” Meredith deadpans.

Peter snorts. “Yeah, thanks. And it wasn’t even that bad, only said the eff-word once. It was just… _innuendo_ , you know? And he couldn’t even chirp back. Man, the look on his stupid face was the best.”

Meredith’s smile is wide, the image of the one Peter sees in his own mirror. “I think this is supposed to be where I tell you I don’t approve, and don’t do it again. But… no. You did fine. Handled it exactly how we always talked about. Ignored it, deflected and, well. Read the situation and apparently decided the nuclear option was best?” Her voice tremors and she starts laughing. “And all the while, your coach was listening to you? Peter, that’s just classic.” She wipes at her eyes.

Peter groans again. “Don’t remind me. I really like Coach Vlad, I respect the dude.”

Meredith pats his knee. “Baby. It’s my job as your mother to keep you humble.”

“You’re my _mother_? Wow!” Peter says, the old joke well-worn and smooth between the two of them.

“Uh, I think so?” Meredith says.

“Man, I’m so lucky,” Peter says. He smacks a noisy kiss on her cheek and bounds off before she can retaliate or get sentimental. He _is_ lucky. He knows it. Humming a snatch of _Eye of the Tiger_ , he heads off to find his grandfather. The chirping war between him and Brad isn’t over, but he knows it’s going to be more fun now instead of edged. There’s an understanding between them now, some respect. And now they both know he can dish as well as he can take. Still, best to get an early start on one-upping Bradley.

He finds Greg in the backyard, pulling weeds. Greg straightens up, wiping dirt from his hands. "Heya, Petey. You want to help me with this?"

“Sure, no problem, Grandpa," Peter says. "But I wanted to ask - you got a permanent marker somewhere? Or maybe some paint?"

Greg shrugs. "I think Janine has some Sharpies in the junk drawer in the kitchen? Why?"

Peter grins. "I need to personalize my goalie pads.” 

_Alyssa Milano to the rescue._

It's gonna be so awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Video for Tretiak's training can be seen here, it's pretty short: https://youtu.be/qrfOsCVakvs?t=28s
> 
> The Guide to Getting it On by Paul Joannides is hands-down, one of the best books about sex you can buy. It's hefty, and keeps getting better. I have the fourth edition, and it's accessible, witty, has fun illustrations and interviews with people. It covers most things, though my edition could have a bigger section on bisexuality IMOP, but yeah. Can't rec it enough, especially when you get chapters titled 'Balls, Balls, Balls!' or 'Semen Confidential'. Used for a textbook in over 50 colleges, so.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for coming along on this ride!

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd end up here, writing Peter Quill hockey AU coming-of-age fic, and yet here we are. I still wanted to write a living-Meredith Quill, hockey mom extraordinaire. I also wanted to explore a bit about growing up with hockey, and how the truly talented players are targeted by others, on-ice and off. Jealous players are one thing, but the stories I've heard about sports-parents actually verbally attacking kids are so much worse. I wanted to see how Peter would learn to handle it. Add in the usual sports homophobia, and Peter discovering his sexuality, and suddenly I ended up with a LOT more words than I expected to have when I embarked. Sorry about that, the non-plot and word-count.
> 
> Okay, that winds up this story. Next one is 80% done, but needs finishing and some heavy editing to bring down wordiness. It's going to be called Peter and the Crossroads, and it's going to be heavier than the previous two. Look for it in a couple of weeks.
> 
> Comments always welcome, thanks!


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